


Some Time Alone

by OneofWebs



Category: Detroit: Become Human (Video Game)
Genre: First Kiss, Kissing, M/M, Painting
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-06-24
Updated: 2018-06-24
Packaged: 2019-05-27 15:16:38
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,531
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/15027425
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/OneofWebs/pseuds/OneofWebs
Summary: Markus really found comfort the first time he went up on that roof, so he tries it again with some new found-badly damaged-painting equipment he'd picked out of the under city. Simon joins him. Markus walked away from North, but Simon, he won't walk away from Simon.





	Some Time Alone

**Author's Note:**

> David Cage is a coward and I will right every wrong he perpetrated by not letting me romance Simon. I just recently joined this discord server, so bless all them for giving me the inspiration to write this, because it was pure and it was gold. I can't wait to write the longest novel ever about this.

Perhaps indulgence wasn't some type of privilege Markus was allowed. With the lives lost, with the country verging on war—no matter how hard he had tried to retain his pacifism—it seemed almost arbitrary. Someone, somewhere, was suffering, and Markus was going to busy himself on this open roof top with an easel and have broken canvas. Because, he'd found them, and there was something almost like pain that made him think so deeply of Carl that he had to. Indulge, or whatever it was he thought he was doing with a paintbrush and old paint. What he was doing was sitting there, on the messy floor, and staring. It felt wrong, as right as it felt, that he could even fathom the time to do something like this. That he could truly relish in the weight of the brush in his palm, that it felt a bit like joy, and he'd missed it. Androids were out there, bound to slavery and dying, and Markus was staring at the bucket of paint wondering what he could do with the color blue.

Arbitrary, and somehow he could her the voices of every Android in Detroit spilling him words of guilt. Paint or Plan.

Markus slumped forward and closed his eyes. He could weigh the pros, the cons, the feeling of the wind as it whipped around the empty room. He'd already tried the piano, but something about it hadn't felt home enough, which left him no farther than he'd been before. There were far more pros than there were cons to taking a moment to himself, to relax. Only, it all begged the question of his worth. Was he truly _allowed_ to sit here and enjoy a bout of peace when there was so much to be done? When there were Androids who would benefit so wondrously from their cause?

Revolution would have to wait fifteen minutes, Markus decided, because maybe he wasn't worth of the time. Maybe he wasn't allowed the time. Maybe the time could be spent so much better elsewhere, but this was what he needed at the moment. A time of reflection, of understanding—to make sure he knew the answers. Answers what could only be found in this moment of silence, so he pushed himself up the ground and took the brush with him. He would paint. He'd earned at least fifteen minutes to _paint_. The scene was perfect, around him, in the silence of the world with nothing but wind. He had his brush, paint that was a little old, but it wasn't dry. It was blue, too, Carl's favorite. Everything he needed, a brush now dipped, and then he stood there. For an increasingly long minute before he sighed and dropped the brush back into the little can.

"I didn't think to find you up here," a sudden, quiet voice. Markus could almost hear his hands rubbing together before he glanced over his shoulder—saw Simon standing there like he was cold, but he wasn't shivering.

"Deja vu," Markus commented, almost laughed, but he didn't smile. "Did North give me away?"

Simon nodded, kept his eyes off to the side, and hoped that Markus didn't catch onto the insinuation that he had _asked_ where Markus was. If only because he'd come up here and acted like it was a coincidence, which it hadn't been. Stupid. Strange, at the very least, but Markus didn't seem to notice. He just turned back to the half cracked canvas and shifted his weight to one foot.

"What's that for?" Simon took a few steps forward, wrapped his arms together and stopped again when Markus turned around completely.

"I thought I might paint," he looked thoughtful. "I managed to find the stuff for it, so I thought… Well," he scoffed, "it was a foolish thought anyway."

Simon glanced at it for a moment, just long enough for the silence to feel a little heavy, "You paint?" Brilliant.

"I wouldn't say that. It's just…" and Markus seemed to take enough time to look Simon over, from head to toe. Simon noticed. He didn't move. He didn't even speak, and this time, it seemed to be the right choice. Markus continued of his own free will, and closed the distance just a few more steps.

"Before I came here," he eyed Simon just a second, "I cared for an old man; he was like a father to me. He painted, and…it was something he wanted to share with me. Maybe it's strange to say, but it's comforting. To paint, I mean."

An understanding nod, and a moment, before Simon realized he hadn't actually said anything, "It sounds nice," and his smile was reminiscing. "Reminds you of home?" Simon stepped around to approach the canvas, and Markus turned on his heel to watch, to follow.

"Something like that." The word home felt good. A good way to think of Carl and the manor.

"And you're having trouble?" Simon looked back at him. "What's on your mind?"

Then, they stood side by side, and Markus let himself a moment to glance at Simon again. There was something about him, something he couldn't quite define.

"Model for me," it was out before he could stop himself.

Simon may have just as well flown backwards with as fast as he stepped away, hands behind his back and eyes a little wider. A little shocked. A face that Markus was ready to immortalize, but that would be a harder sell than just modeling for him, to paint an expression that looked just a little ridiculous as Simon grasped for something to say in response. Anything that sounded remotely intelligent would do, but instead he just stared at Markus, while Markus. Smiled. Simon's shocked stupidly expression fell, and he looked something fond instead. Markus rarely smiled.

"Come on, Simon. I could really use the help," Markus was taking advantage of their distance and already moving the easel between them. Now, there was no way out; trapped by social convention, Simon really had no choice but to stand there and let his arms fall limp.

"Why do I have to do this?" he was grimacing—almost.

"I'm at a loss, and I think you will do just nicely. You have," and he peaked around the canvas to say this part, "the most beautiful eyes."

Simon huffed and folded his arms again, looked off to the side with a pursed lip like he didn't appreciate the comment, but they both knew better than that. He stood there, like that, weight on one foot and hip shifted outward, because Markus told him to stand like that. There was just the noise of the brush on the canvas then and the wind. For what seemed like ages, and from behind the easel, they couldn't see each other. Markus had his eyes closed, the only way he really knew how. If he'd left his eyes open, he might have just painted Simon standing there, like he was, but he couldn't do that.

It wouldn't do him justice.

Ten minutes in, and Simon took time to notice that he really _couldn't_ see Markus. Hadn't even seen him peak to the side to actually look, and if he was supposed to be modeling, he should've been looking. Simon dropped his arms and stared at the canvas for a moment, hard enough that he might see through it, before deciding that Markus hadn't noticed his change of stance. Ten minutes was long enough that there was an ache in his leg, programmed to appear for the _humanity_ of it all, but there nonetheless. Simon took the first step closer, and waited a few seconds before he continued. His steps, soft, ever fearful that Markus would, in fact, hear him, and the ruse would be up before it really ever began. He kept moving, approaching slowly, until he'd rounded the bare edge of the canvas and came to stand just ever so apart from Markus and his wide sweeping arm.

What he saw was not at all what he had been expecting. And the whole thing was eerily starting to seem like a joke, because what he saw was a portrait of himself. Eyes open and painfully vibrant, lips set in a hard line, and he looked so serious. The whole thing painted in streaks of blue in varying shades, but his eyes were so bright. Almost real and wet, like he had been crying in the piece. But all around him, Markus was painting flowers in the same differing shades of blue, but they were beautiful. Roses, but not quite. Some expression of a rose, and Simon bit his lip. He just stood there and worried at it while Markus continued, until the paint can was nearly empty, and he'd finally stopped. Markus stepped back, opened his eyes, and jolted when he saw that Simon had moved. They stared at each other for the briefest of seconds before Simon turned to look at the canvas again.

"That's not what I was doing," he pointed out, stupidly.

"Well, no," Markus looked at him, then back to the canvas. "Carl said that I shouldn't just copy reality, that it's more about interpreting what I see."

Simon stood there for a moment, unsure of what topic was better to cover first. Carl must have been the old man, but the way Markus said his name was like something sacred. He couldn't help but be a little curious about this father figure. But, what was more than that. Markus interpreting what he saw. Simon had to take another hard look at the canvas to really believe it—that this was what Markus saw.

"I'm…flattered," Simon decided on, and glanced back at Markus, searching for a reaction. There was none, save that little look that Markus shot him and the barest hints of a smile. Simon wasn't imagining it. This image, this absolutely gorgeous piece with flowers and all bright eyes was what Markus saw, and something about it made him feel a little warm. Even with the wind. He bunched up his hand in the fabric of his shirt just over his chest and stared a little longer.

"I don't get it," he finally said, and Markus turned to look at him.

"What don't you get?"

Simon sighed, "Maybe I just wasn't programmed for art, but," the look he gave Markus was almost dejected, "how do you see that? In me?"

Markus let the question hang in the air, because he didn't know how to answer it. It was heavy, loaded question, and it went unsaid what was behind it. He just knew from that distant look in Simon's eyes. He was a PL600 model, and he wasn't unique. They had several more that looked just like him down below in the hold of Jericho. Rescued from CyberLife stores. Right down to the centimeter placement of their LEDs, they were the same, so how could Markus see this masterpiece in _him_. There was a pang of almost jealousy, because maybe this is just what the model looked like to Markus. All of them. Simon wasn't special. Simon wasn't different.

"Give me your hand," Markus said, and it cut the silence fast. Simon didn't even have time to react, because Markus was reaching for him and taking his arm, then pressing their hands together, from palm to fingertip. Simon watched almost idly, confused, as the pressure seemed to peel away at their skin. It left nothing but the bright white beneath, then the soft blue light. Then.

There was this rush of something absolute that just flooded through Simon, down to his core. Down to his heart. He was standing in a messy art studio, and this blossoming burst forward. He could see the painting, hear the voice to the side telling him, instructing him as he painted across the canvas. His eyes were closed; he could feel the world around him as it crafted forth on the canvas, and it was overwhelming. It all fell away, and he was jumping into Jericho for the first time. That pounding fear of the fall, of wandering through the dark and unpopulated hallways, falling down around him. Falling again as the ground underneath him _shattered_ , and he was looking at himself. It hit him harder than the initial burst had, and Simon suddenly jerked back another step, ripping their hands apart. He was panting, wide eyed, and almost scared.

He had never felt such a rush of emotion. Something he. Couldn't quite define, and the words just seemed to come straight from Markus' eyes. Maybe even his memories. Looking at the painting and feeling warmth spread out to his fingertips. What was that called?

Markus seemed to have the same look about him, at least, and he had gone from looking at Simon to looking down at his hands, clenching and loosening his fingers from a fist. Connection like that shouldn't have been possible, and suddenly he felt like he knew something he shouldn't. He'd seen everything, felt the fear as Simon had fled from his life, found Jericho. The bloom when they'd first made eye contact, and the funniest squint.

"I guess I did shine that flashlight right in your eyes, didn't I?" Markus _smiled_.

Simon couldn't help the stupid little scoff that came from his lips, "You did. But," he supposed it didn't matter so much, and didn't voice it. He just smiled, glanced back down at the ground. It was easier than staring directly at Markus, who had such a gaze it felt almost predatory. Almost, but in this case, it was something different. Something a little softer, and Simon didn't need to look back to feel the way Markus was coming closer. One step at a time, until they were close—close enough to breathe the same air if they really needed to. Markus pressed their hands back together, and this time, Simon was ready for it. Except, this time, there was something different.

This time, when he looked back up, Markus was inches from his face, eyes half lidded, and suddenly they were kissing. Simon hadn't even questioned it, hadn't even stopped it. Just pressed back and let his eyelids drip shut like it's what he was supposed to do. Maybe something as foolish as what was meant to be, in that moment, while something new bubbled up in his chest. It lasted, and it lasted, until there was nothing but the wind, and they truly felt alone with the rest of the world. The universe, even, completely empty without that kiss.

"I…hope that wasn't overstepping," Markus whispered, when they pulled back.

Simon shook his head, "No—no, not at all. No," and he just shook his head. A lack of better things to say, to do. He was overwhelmed, and Markus just dragged his hand across his cheek. Simon let his eyes drift closed again, leaned into Markus' hand because it felt right.

"There's just something there," Markus' voice was nothing more than a whisper, "in your eyes. Like something I can't quite define."

Simon believed it, for that moment. He really did.

**Author's Note:**

>   
>  [Check Out My Tumblr If You Want To See More](https://tantumuna.tumblr.com)   
> 


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